


Dibs (Another Word for Love)

by blue_wonderer, wonderingtheblue (blue_wonderer)



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Coldflash Exchange 2018, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, Fluff and crack and angst oh my, IN SPACE!, M/M, Soulmates BUT NOT REALLY?, Truth Serum, Weddings, but like kinda light on the angst, forced bed sharing, gratuitous objectification of Barry's thighs, wrastlin'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-06-25 16:15:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15644361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_wonderer/pseuds/blue_wonderer, https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_wonderer/pseuds/wonderingtheblue
Summary: In which Barry and Len get fake-married to save a planet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MoeRiverside](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoeRiverside/gifts).



> For the prompt: "Len and Barry wedding day! Featuring mortally offended Oliver and Cisco who are BOTH asked to be Best Man to Barry. Also- both sides of the wedding party trying to get along for the sake of the special day. (Maybe featuring a Bachelor party?) Fluffy and happy endings for everyone."
> 
> ...Yes, well. I'm sure I'll hit the prompt _eventually_.

“It’s like Avatar,” Cisco says suddenly, voice echoing in the cavernous council hall and breaking the tense, expectant silence. 

It’s certainly enough to distract Barry from his cyclical worries about the upcoming peace talks, whether or not the rest of his friends were okay, and how hungry he was. He makes a face as Cisco’s words sink in. “In what way?” 

Cisco gestures vaguely around them. “In the—wait, no. You’re thinking James Cameron. I’m thinking of the Avatar that actually has a significant cultural impact.” 

Nate snaps his fingers, brightening. “The Last Airbender!” 

Thea scowls incredulously. “The _movie_? The movie was awful.” 

“No, the series,” Diggle nods along with Cisco. “You’re talking about that one episode with the two tribes, right? Where Sokka and Katara are supposed to mediate but end up taking sides in the feud?” 

“‘The Great Divide’,” Barry says, suddenly remembering. “That’s the name of the episode.” 

“That’s a good episode,” Thea agrees. 

“I think this situation is on a bit more of a serious scale than two tribes feuding over food and cleanliness,” Jax points out doubtfully. 

“See what I’m saying?” Cisco says, misty-eyed. “Cultural impact. We _all_ understood that reference.” 

“I did not,” Zari says, raising her hand. 

“We’ll marathon it later,” Nate promises earnestly, happily ignoring Zari’s dubious look. 

“Who’s Aang in this situation?” Thea asks. 

“Barry,” Cisco answers promptly and loyally. 

“Probably Kara’s team,” Barry says more honestly. “She and Iris have actually managed to stay neutral while we’ve all been split between the two sides.” 

“I wouldn’t say split,” Nate points out reasonably. “It’s more like political espionage. We’re just trying to disrupt a planetary war from the inside of the two factions.” 

“Is that what you and Amaya were doing yesterday? Because it looked like you guys were arguing about how the sides you each chose should win.” Zari asks innocently. 

Nate scowls. “Well, our side is clearly in the right,” he mutters, crossing his arms. 

Diggle rolls his eyes. “Kara asked us to come here to help _stop_ her friend’s planet from falling into war. Not to be the reason they start fighting.” 

“Look,” Barry sighs, running a hand through his hair and wishing Oliver or Iris was here with him. “Craix and his _oksegh_ will be here soon. We just need to stick to the points we came up with last night, try to broker a meeting with the other side. Sara and the others should be working on the same thing.”

“And then maybe we can stop this thing and actually take a vacation,” Jax says, waving a hand to the bank of windows where they have an excellent view of an alien sky and it's two rising suns that have yet to outshine the pale ghosts of planet Yasperon’s four moons. “We’re the first humans on an alien planet and we haven’t even been able to look around.” 

“An alien vacation,” Cisco nods. 

Digg sighs the sigh of a man trapped in a room with a bunch of idiots. “We talked about this. You don’t need to modify every noun with the word ‘alien’. We’re in space, man. We _know_.” 

“I heard the alien oceans are purple,” Thea says wistfully while she ignores Digg’s world-weary groan. 

“I heard the alien sand doesn’t stick to you,” Zari agrees.  

“I heard that the alien libraries actually have documents from a million years ago. Can you believe that?” Nate sighs with actual hearts in his eyes. 

Barry opens his mouth to contribute—because he’d heard a lot about the sweet alien delicacies on this planet and he’s been too busy to try anything and he’s so _hungry_ it was _so unfair_ —when the doors to the council hall slide open, effectively cutting off any more daydreaming about alien vacations. Barry really likes the futuristic doors and the _Star Trek_ -like hydraulic “swishing” sounds they make, but he has to admit that a certain dramatic flair is lost with the inability to burst through a swinging door. Aragorn’s dramatic re-entrance into Rohan in _The Two Towers_ would have been totally lost if it had been a _Star Trek_ door.  

But then again, the entourage that enters the council room is sensational enough on their own. Richly garbed, Craix, the sort-of prime minister of the Strehm nation, leads their _oksegh_ into the room in a fanfare of heavy, echoing footsteps and the clink-rattle of their weapons. _Oksegh_ doesn’t have a direct translation into English, but as far as Barry can piece together, the _oksegh_ are both the prime minister’s most trusted advisors and the Strehm’s most elite warriors. While Craix is dressed in rich robes and glittering jewels, the _oksegh_ don dull but functional body armor. The impossibly large guns they carry strapped to their backs and short but deadly swords at their hips are certainly distracting enough. Behind Craix and the _oksegh_ trail several politicians. They are dressed even more vividly in the colors and styles of the various regions they represent. Barry is awed, as always, at the sheer but strange beauty of the Strehm. 

He’s not awed for long, though, because he quickly notices that they have a prisoner struggling in the unforgiving grip of two _oksegh_. To be specific, two of the Strehm’s most elite and scariest warriors are currently holding a less-than-happy Leonard _fucking_ Snart between them. 

“Craix—Premier Craix!” Barry cries out, just barely remembering to tack on the proper title.  He pushes to the front of the assembled heroes to meet Craix face-to-face. “I—” he’s cut off, remembering his place here on this planet when Digg loudly clears his throat. He swallows back his concern and strives to put forth a diplomatic front. “What are you doing?” 

He winces, remembering again why he’s a _terrible diplomat_. Cisco clears his throat even louder, accompanied by some of the others and _why_ did Kara ever think that they could actually help? Exactly none of them had any skill set in subtlety. She should have probably contacted the League of Assassins instead. _Nyssa_ probably wouldn’t have been caught by the _oksegh_. Barry rallies, pushing down his impatience. “I mean,” he tries again, “forgive my outburst, uh, Premier Craix, but I am… confused. I thought this is supposed to be about peace talks. What is happening?” 

“My dear Friend Barry,” Craix begins with a somber air. Craix, like the other Strehm, does not express their emotions with their faces or even their words. Instead, they convey nonverbal communication with their bodies. The way they tilt their shoulders or lean a certain way, or the way they shape their eight-fingered hands at their sides supplements and magnifies their spoken language. It’s almost like sign language, in a way, except more subtle and with more of the body involved. No translator provided by Gideon could help them understand this nuanced language, so they’ve been struggling to understand their new friends and, more importantly, how to not unwittingly offend them. Barry’s witnessed whole, complex conversations take place between the Strehm without spoken words. 

Barry’s learned enough to understand the Craix is genuinely angry and possibly even saddened. Whether it is at Barry’s rude outburst or whatever led to Len being caught by the _oksegh_ , Barry cannot tell.  

His eyes skip briefly past Craix to see Len glaring at him. The look is so pointed and angry, it’s like Len thinks it’s somehow _Barry’s_ fault that he’s in whatever mess he’s gotten himself into. The only thing Len can do about his situation is glare, though, what with him being gagged and all. Besides the gag and seeming out of breath from fighting against his captors so hard, Len doesn’t seem injured or abused, at least. He’s been disarmed, of course. Another quick glance around shows that one of the _oksegh_ has the cold gun strapped to his hip. Barry would glare right back, tempted as he always is to fall into childishness when he’s near his former villain, except he’s too busy trying to remember if the death penalty is practiced by their hosts. 

“After your words to me last night, I genuinely hoped that we could make peace with the Huddaks. But look,” he says as he points to Len. “They’ve sent a saboteur, a spy, to our stronghold. They have violated the armistice and I’m afraid I cannot trust them to engage in the negotiations tomorrow.”

“Uh, wait,” Cisco says, rushing to stand next to Barry. “Wait, I’m sure—I’m sure that there’s been a misunderstanding.” 

“Yeah,” Diggle says, voice a great deal more threatening as he glares just as hard at Len as Len is glaring at Barry. “I’m sure there is a reasonable explanation as to why someone would want to delay the peace talks. Because that someone knows that if I miss my little boy’s birthday then I’m going to be very _upset_.” 

“And because that someone knows that the sooner we get to the peace talks, the sooner we can go on an alien vacation.”

“With an alien purple ocean,” Thea adds. 

“And alien sand that doesn’t stick to you,” Zari finishes through clenched teeth. 

“We had hoped to stop this war,” Craix says. “But this spy is evidence that the Huddaks are not so eager.” 

“Premier Craix, I know this man, he— _why_ is he gagged?” Barry asks. 

Craix does a series of gestures that Barry can’t quite interpret, and when it becomes clear that Barry can’t understand him, Craix endeavors to find the proper words. “He convinced one of our _oksegh_ to let him go before we had to recapture him—it is clear that he has quite the silver tongue. We decided to bind it until his trial.” 

“Trial?” Nate asks in a small voice, drifting to Barry’s other side and closer to his teammate. 

Joking about vacations and going to the beach aside, Barry suddenly feels the gravity of the situation. He doesn’t know what Snart was doing here, but he can’t be put on trial. A prison break or, worse, an attempted execution would surely make the Legends and the other teams fight against the Strehm. They’d break their promise to Kara and possibly even drag Earth into an intergalactic war it was in no way ready to fight. 

…Also, Barry would really like a vacation to a purple beach with sand that doesn’t get stuck in places it shouldn’t get stuck. 

He finds himself slowly walking forward towards Craix and Len, body trying to convey peace and surrender. Craix, for some reason Barry can’t begin to imagine, has come to trust him enough that he waves off his bodyguards and soldiers from barring Barry’s approach. 

“Premiere Craix, please, Snart—uh, Len’s not a spy.” 

“He’s not?” Craix asks. 

“He’s not?” Nate asks. 

“Amm noh?” Len asks behind his gag. 

“No!” Barry says emphatically, mostly at Len. “And you can’t—I ask that you not throw him in prison. Or, er. Put him on trial or otherwise punish or maim him.” 

“Let’s not give them _more ideas_ , Barry,” he hears Zari huff under her breath. 

“Why not?” Craix asks. 

“Right. Why not?” Barry asks himself, looking at Len with wide eyes, trying to find a clue of what he should do next. “Why not. Because, uh,” he read up on Strehm history and customs and laws at superspeed, but that was days ago, and barely any of it made it to his long-term memory. He thinks he maybe read something about prior blood feuds taking precedence over new conflicts? It’s not much to go on and worryingly full of holes, but it’s all Barry’s got and he’s honestly worked with less before. “I mean to say that Len is… mine. I’ve got a score to settle with him first. I mean a, uh, prior… contract? So. By Strehm law he should go to my custody.” He swallows and tries not to vibrate through the floor at the collective stares he receives from Strehm and Earthlings alike. “...Right?” 

“Friend Barry,” Craix says slowly. “Are you genuinely laying claim to this spy?”  
“That’s right,” Barry nods, but only receives increased uncertainty from Craix. He remembers that both the Strehm and Huddak peoples place a great deal of stress on body language and need nonverbal cues to underscore the significance of spoken words. But Barry doesn’t have any idea what gesture to use for ‘Snart is my villain slash anti-hero and he’s already died once and I don’t think he’ll come back this time so please don’t kill him because Mick and Lisa would kill _me_ ’. So, he makes one up. 

Well, not so much as makes one up as he remembers one from elementary school. 

He licks his palm and wipes it across Len’s right cheek. “I call dibs.” 

Both of Len’s eyebrows shoot up. Craix seems to express puzzlement and consideration with his stance and the place of his hands at his sides. He hears someone behind him, maybe Thea, wheeze.

“What?” Cisco chokes. 

“Good work,” Nate whispers and holds both thumbs up in a show of support while Jax facepalms and Digg looks longingly at the swishy door like he’s seriously thinking of just making a run for it. 

Craix’s face doesn’t really change, as is his way, but unless Barry is wrong, Craix’s body language seem to indicate less aggression and more contemplation as he looks between Len and Barry. 

“Friend Barry, you call ‘dibs’ on this spy?” 

“Yes,” Barry nods and tries to emulate sincerity with every muscle twitch he can. 

“So he was not here to spy, but coming to visit you, his soulmate and his betrothed?” 

Barry nods again. “Yes. Wait. What?” 

“What?” Zari asks. 

“...Oahh?” Len asks, still gagged. 

“Jesus Christ,” Digg grumbles, stalks over to the corner and plops down in one of the chairs to nurse his oncoming migraine. 

Craix, however, looks so delighted it’s actually showing in his face, all four eyes crinkling at the corners is a smile. He claps his hands and seems to be floating in _joy_ , his robes suddenly billowing about him. 

Well, Barry realizes, Craix _is_ floating. The Strehm apparently have the ability to levitate. Which is _so cool_ and would be a whole lot cooler if he didn’t currently have one of Barry’s friends help prisoner.

“This is wonderful!” Craix exclaims, reaching out to frame Barry’s face with their eight-fingered hands, pearly claws prickling just past his hairline. “My friend Barry, we had no idea the One Who Runs With Lightning had a betrothed! You must do us the honor of having your wedding ceremony here.” 

“I, uh—” Barry rasps, mouth suddenly dry and vision tunneling. What was he supposed to do? Craix seemed so happy. And Len—their whole mission—was in really big trouble if he didn’t play along. “I—Craix, my friend, I—” Desperately, he looks to Len. It’s hard to tell with half of his face covered by the gag, but Barry had spent some time once trying to understand the man and his tells. And, when they had thought Len dead, there were a number of nights where Barry reimagined his face over and over again, trying to find something he missed, something Barry could have said, could have understood, to have stopped what had happened. 

So he knows that the look Len wears is somewhere between amused and challenging, something close to that night in the forest what seems like years ago, when Barry had first challenged him not to hurt anyone and Len’s eyes had danced. Then, like now, he had seemed to say, _“what are you going to do now, Scarlet?”_

“I wouldn’t want to impose?” Barry finally squeaks out. “And, with the peace talks, I don’t think now is the best time—” 

Craix’s body communicates a series of things Barry can’t keep up with—eagerness, sincerity, and more. Craix eventually starts to voice his words when its clear that they are at another communication impasse. “But, Friend Barry, don’t you realize that now is the most _opportune_ time? Strehm and Huddak traditions both dictate that all conflict cease whenever there is a marriage of soulmates. A wedding is a very ideal environment for peace talks. Unless you no longer believe we should try to negotiate with the Huddaks?” 

Barry tries to respond, he really does. He opens his mouth and everything because he has a lot he wants to say, but nothing comes out. In fact, he thinks he’s probably stopped breathing. 

“Are you… saying,” Digg says slowly from his seat, dark, watchful eyes peering at Craix and then at Thea and then Barry. “That Snart and Barry’s… _wedding_ … could potentially stop this war?” 

“Exactly! We are not barbarians. Love always triumphs over war. The Huddaks will see that, too.” 

“It’s a bit sooner… than we planned,” Barry says, voice wavering. “I… I’d have to make sure it’s fine with Snar— _Len_. With Len. My. Uh. Betrothed.” 

Craix sort of shivers in a way to indicate high concern. “Of course! You—oh dear.” His long fingers twitch at his sides, his body sways aggressively, and the _oksegh_ are quick to follow the nuanced commands. In a flurry, the intimidating creatures suddenly become intensely apologetic as they gently remove Len’s gag and bindings and stand him up. They even dust him off, straighten his shirt, and kiss his cheek and hands in the Strehm greeting of friendship. 

If Barry wasn’t already dying of embarrassment and panic, he might have laughed at the brief, dumb-stricken look that flew over Len’s expression before he blinked it away and resumed his trademark scowl. 

“What say you, One Who Loves Lightning? Would you let us celebrate your marriage to your soulmate? It would surely make history.” 

There it is again. That “soulmate” word.

“Just to be clear,” Len says slowly, cool blue eyes boring into Barry as he talks. “If, say, we said that we were joking, that we weren’t betrothed. I’d still be held on trial for _allegedly_ spying on you?” 

“And The One Who Runs with Lightning as well, for treason,” Craix solemnly adds. Barry swallows thickly but shakes his head abortively when Thea and Cisco start to move to stand protectively in front of him. He feels the Speed Force coil within him, around him, wary and protective, a siren song to just _run and run and run_. “But why would you pretend not to be betrothed? Surely our cultures are not so different? Or our philosophers were mistaken and love is not as universal as we believed?”

There is an excruciatingly long moment where Len doesn’t seem to blink, where his face is completely blank. Barry has a sudden urge to say something, anything, whether it be a rushed apology or a confession of the lie he started, he’s not sure and bites his tongue to keep from finding out. This ruse is the only way he can see out of this mess they’ve made. 

And then Len smiles, lets his body communicate “genuine” and “happy” for the Strehm in the room. He steps closer to Barry. “I’m not sure about your philosophers, Premiere Craix, but I would be most honored to wed my betrothed here, before the Strehm and the Huddaks.” 

He stops right before Barry. Really, really close. Too close— _way_ too close. Len’s eyes search his, asking questions that Barry doesn’t know how to decode, much less answer. Then Len smirks, brings his hand up, licks his palm like Barry did minutes before, and wipes it across Barry’s face. 

“I call dibs.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Well, that was... “ Barry trails off. He looks around their new rooms, the sitting area, the small kitchenette. He pays some fascinated attention to the strange, abstract art and sculptures on the walls and surfaces as he wanders, reaching out to poke any and all devices and appliances, wondering how they work. “This is…” Barry tries again, stopping in the kitchenette and glancing over to where Len is still haunting the doorway and looking like he’s half-thinking of making a break for it. “...better than prison?” He finally finishes. 

He feels the sudden need to apologize but he refuses. It was Len who got them in this situation, and Barry got them out of it. Perhaps in a more… _unorthodox_ manner than Len or anyone else expected, but still. At least no one was in an alien prison awaiting an alien trial that could lead to an alien execution. 

Besides, he’s not giving any ground to Len. He learned long ago that Len would take a mile. 

Len looks at him with cool, calculating eyes and Barry finds it infuriating that sometimes Len is so clear to read and other times he’s an enigma wrapped up in a mystery. As if drawn forward reluctantly by some unseen magnetism, Len finally walks forward into the suite, though his guarded gaze doesn’t leave Barry. 

“Or maybe it’s giving up one prison for another,” Len points out and Barry swallows because he was worried about that, too. Worried that it was all some elaborate trick, worried that it couldn’t have been this _easy_ , worried that they were still separated from his friends even if the accommodations were much more preferable. Part of him wants to believe that Craix doesn’t have some ulterior motive to hurt them—according to Gideon and their own research, underhanded tactics and manipulation just wasn’t predominant in either the Strehm or the Huddak cultures. Their values laid in straightforwardness. They weren’t even that good at sarcasm. 

But Barry knows about ulterior motives. He knows about prisons, and he knows about prisons that don’t look like prisons. Knows the choking feeling of being able to move, being able to talk and think and live but not being _free_ , always wondering if the thoughts he has is even his own or the whispers of someone else. 

He knows it’s the same for Len. That’s the thing about them, why they were such good enemies, why they could be such good allies. They resonated with each other in more ways than Barry used to be comfortable with. 

Still, Barry finds himself rolling his eyes and giving in to a flare of frustration. “Maybe think about that next time before you go spying on a paranoid nation just a few hours before the first peace talks. And getting caught. What were you _thinking_?” 

Len’s smirk spreads slowly across his face and Barry has the feeling that he lost some ground somewhere, or played into some corner that Len wanted him in, but for the life of him he can’t figure out where and how. 

“I was thinking that I wouldn’t be caught.” 

“So you admit you were spying.” 

Len shrugs and starts prowling the perimeter of the room, and Barry thinks it’s unfair how his booted feet seem to make no noise on the floor. Sara and Oliver are the same, making no noise when they walk unless they want to because they’re predators, big cats always stalking their prey. 

Except Len’s more like a wolf, starving and watchful, quiet because of necessity, because of a half-remembered and primordial fear. 

Sometimes Len is so easy to read. 

“I wasn’t spying,” Len dismisses, stopping on what is probably an art piece and tilting his head appraisingly. “Tell me, Barry. If you’re so mad about this betrothal thing, why not leave me in the _oksegh’s_ capable hands? Let me face the consequences of my own actions.” 

And then sometimes he’s not. 

Barry knows Len knows the answer to that. He’s an ally, maybe a friend. And Barry is the Flash, he’s not going to let anyone, especially a teammate, hurt if he can avoid it. So, Barry has no idea why Len’s bothering to ask. Looking for something Barry doesn’t know how to give, looking to gain a higher ground in a battle Barry doesn’t know they’re fighting. 

“You know why,” he sighs, finally looking away, dissipating whatever tension was building up. Bravely, he strikes a path to the bedroom. The Strehm sleep low to the floor, the bedding already laid out for them reminding Barry of sleeping arrangements he's seen in anime. Ever the thoughtful and confusingly meddlesome Premiere, Craix had ordered their clothes and other personal effects retrieved from the Waverider and dropped off in the room. “There’s only one bed,” he reports dumbly. 

There’s almost no warning before Len is crowding the doorway with Barry, and Barry imagines he can feel Len’s heat even through the tripolymer of his suit, feels Len’s body brush against the back of his arm. 

“Well,” Len drawls. “We are betrothed. Don’t tell me you’re shy.” 

Barry rolls his eyes again, even as he flushes, and marches into the room like he’s proving a point. (He’s always proving points to Len, he just wishes he at least knew what those points _were_.) 

“Well, I’m taking the bed,” Barry announces as he opens his suitcase and fishes for clothes. He has way more clothes in here than he actually packed—he’d kind of hoped for a short trip, and also he suspected he’d spend most of the time in his Flash suit—and he probably has Gideon to thank for the new but criminally soft shorts and an oversized shirt. 

Len snorts and squats down next to Barry, opening his own duffle. “That doesn’t seem very chivalrous of you, Barry.” 

“No, what was chivalrous was saving you from being beheaded,” Barry sniffs with an air of superiority. “Which you still haven’t thanked me for.” 

“We don’t know that I’d have been beheaded,” Len points out. “We don’t even know if they have a death penalty. For all we know, I could have gotten a slap on the wrist and told to behave before they set me free.”

Barry pauses in his search for a toothbrush and turns to give Len a deadpan look. Len blinks at him before shrugging. 

“OK,” he concedes airly while he pulls out some clothes. “That probably wouldn’t have happened.” 

“Right, it’s agreed then. I’ll take the bed.” 

“I didn’t agree on anything,” Len says. “And if I come clean on this whole ordeal, you’ll be in just as much hot water as I am. So you probably should be nice to me.” 

Barry scoffs. “You wouldn’t.” Len raises an eyebrow and Barry does a double-take. “You _would_ ,” he gasps, almost admiring Len’s spite. 

“I’ve escaped from a Russian gulag. I could probably escape from a Strehm prison.” 

The thing is, Barry doesn’t really doubt it. 

But he also doesn’t think Len would make good on his threat, either. It’d make no sense to. He might not care one way or the other about the Strehm and Huddaks or whether or not Kara’s friend’s home planet gets mired down in a war, but he cares about Mick and probably the other Legends. He might not be thrilled about this whole marriage thing, but Len would be interested in keeping Mick and his team safe. 

Len can’t even bluster and deny these emotional attachments. He’d already died once for them. So Barry takes pity and doesn’t point out the obvious flaw in Len’s argument. He is a hero, after all. 

Of course, this is all assuming Len decides to act like a rational adult. Sometimes he does the complete opposite of what even Barry expects, frequently just to be contrary. 

Barry grins suddenly and enjoys the way it immediately puts Len on guard. 

“Shotgun!” He says, and then flashes out of his suit, into his night clothes, brushes his teeth, and is sprawled spread-eagled under the covers before Len has time to finish turning his head. 

Len looks deeply unimpressed. Barry grins wider and wiggles in the bed. 

“So comfy,” he says while Len scowls and stalks into the bathroom to change. 

Barry determinedly stays where he is, not moving, even though he aches to as the minutes stretch out waiting on Len. Normal people are so _slow_. He perks up when he hears the doors swish open, but any barbed comment he had planned sort of slips from his grasp. 

He doesn’t know why the sight of Len in only a thin red t-shirt and dark shorts trips him up, but it does. It’s just that he’s never seen Len out of his customary dark clothing that covers everything but his face and hands. He’s even gotten used to seeing him with his gun strapped to his thigh. 

But now he’s _barefoot_ , wearing shorts and a red t-shirt. Barry can see his bare arms, the hints of a tattoo peeking below the left sleeve. And the muscles around his ankles and calves shift oh so interestingly as he walks to his duffle, where he folds his clothes and stacks them neatly next to Barry’s crumpled Flash suit. 

It’s startling to see color on him at all, which is the only reason Barry can think of to be staring at the ripple and dip of his shoulder blades under the material. Len stands and turns around, and Barry quickly looks away, pretending like he just wasn’t staring at the sliver of skin between the hem of Len’s shirt and his waistband as he leaned over to re-zip his duffle. 

He’s very studiously _not_ self-examining this unexpected… distraction… when he feels a shadow fall over him. He blinks up to see Len looming with his arms crossed. He sees even more of the faded tattoo revealed on his left arm, but not enough to make out the shape of it. 

“What?” He snaps, annoyed when Len doesn’t move. His skin prickles with electricity, his fight or flight response—always so sharp and tempting, like a siren call—singing through his bones, restless with his vulnerable position at the feet of a once-enemy. 

Len just raises an eyebrow. “Well, I’m not sleeping on the floor, or on the chairs in the other room.” 

Barry glares and spreads out more aggressively. “Well, I’m not, either.” 

“What happened to a problem shared is a problem halved?” 

Barry squints. “That’s not… I don’t think that applies here…” 

Len shrugs. “Sure it does.” And then he toes Barry’s side. “I’m getting in that bed.” 

Barry pushes his foot away. “Why are you so stubborn?” 

“Pot, kettle,” Len mutters and goes right back to nudging his ribs. Barry actually growls—something he usually leaves up to Oliver—and bats at him again. 

“Look, if we’re going to be ‘betrothed’, we should get used to this. What if your buddy Craix and his barbaric guardsmen come in and see us sleeping in separate rooms?” 

Barry actually pauses at that. “You don’t think that’ll happen?” 

Len scoffs. “I’m not sure if you've noticed, but everyone here is terrible at knocking.” 

Barry snorts. “You should feel right at home then.” 

Len nudges him again, harder this time. It’s probably supposed to hurt, but Barry ends up gasping a choked laugh and throwing an arm down to protect his side. 

“Ticklish, Barry?” Len asks, tilting his head like he’s studying a vault he’s about to break in to. “Cute.” 

Barry’s cheeks flare as he pouts up at Len. “OK, what about a trade-off? I get the bed tonight because I saved your life. And you can get it tomorrow.” 

“Or,” Len says, experimentally trying to elicit another response out of Barry by trying to poke at him with his foot again. “Since you’re the one with the problem sharing, _you_ can go sleep in a chair and leave me the bed.” 

“Who has a problem?” Barry says through gritted teeth, squirming away from Len while trying not to look like he’s squirming away. “I don’t have a problem. I’ll share the bed with you anytime, anywhere.” 

“Then move over, Scarlet.” 

“Make me.” 

Which, in retrospect, are words that he should never utter to Leonard Snart. 

Len glares, and then miraculously finds an opening between Barry’s arm and ribs and digs his foot in. Barry yelps, wheezes, and has had enough. He reaches over, grabs Len’s bony ankle, and _pulls_. 

With the aid of the Speed Force, Barry has one glorious moment where he sees Len’s complete and bewildered surprise before he’s crashing to the ground and Barry is laughing at him. 

Well, he laughs at him right up until Len sits up with murder in his eyes. 

“Uh,” Barry squeaks, licking his suddenly dry lips. “Remember, we’re betrothed—” Which is all he gets out before Len bares his teeth and dives for him, hands out like he’s going to choke Barry. 

The fight ends with Barry still on about three-fourths of the bed, but Len has all of the covers, and they’re both breathing heavily. There’s the sting of an-already healing bruise on his cheek and a ghostly ache in his ribs. 

“...Sorry about your nose,” Barry apologizes, voice small. 

“Shut up, Barry,” Len grumbles a bit nasally, tucking even more cover around him. 

“You think it’s broken?” 

“Shut up, Barry,” Len says, louder. Not broken, then. But it probably definitely hurts. 

They lay in silence for a moment. 

“The light is still on,” Len says. 

“Well, I’m not stupid. I’m not getting up.” Barry retorts. He could probably flash and get the light before Len could even blink, much less take his spot on the bed, but it’s the principle of the thing. 

Len snorts derisively. Barry scowls up at the ceiling. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“What is _what_ supposed to mean?” 

“That snort you just did.” 

“I didn’t snort.” 

“You did, it sounded like this.” Barry proceeds to snort like Len did, with a great deal more exaggeration to make it extra annoying. 

“Go to sleep, Barry,” sighs Len. 

Barry rolls his eyes and silently mimics Len. 

“Heard that.” 

“No, you didn’t.” 

They fall into silence again. Len’s turned towards Barry, but his eyes are stubbornly closed. He feels Len’s breath blow gently just above his elbow. 

“...Hey, Len?” 

“Jesus Christ,” Len huffs, brows knitting together but stubbornly still not opening his eyes. “This isn’t a sleepover, Barry.” 

“Then you don’t know the right definition of a sleepover,” Barry scoffs. “But tell me honestly, what do you think about this?” 

“That you fight dirty for a supposed hero,” Len retorts grumpily. “I can’t believe you bit me.” 

It’d only been because Len had pulled his hair, but with some effort, Barry doesn’t give in to Len’s transparent attempt to avoid this conversation. It’s not like Barry wants to have it, either. 

“I mean this marriage thing.” 

Len readjusts his pillow, knuckles white as he grips it lest Barry steal it like he stole the other three. (He didn’t even need three pillows, but at least Len didn’t have them.) 

“What do you want me to say, Barry? That it’s the worst thing to happen? It’s a thing. If we do this, we don’t get thrown into an alien prison. Kara’s friend’s planet doesn’t go to war. I can pocket some alien tech and art to sell on Earth, we can vacation on an alien beach and then get the hell out of here. It’s like any other con.” 

Barry frowns, counting the long seconds between Len’s breath on his skin, feeling where Len’s bare knee brushes against Barry’s leg when he shifts his pillow again. Barry wonders if he’s in on the con or one of the people Len is playing, and decides its probably both, as it usually is when it comes to Len. 

He glances at Len again to see blue eyes studying him, waiting. 

“Right,” he sighs, a sudden memory of Music Meister’s stupid smile making him grimace. “Play your role.” 

“There are worse prisons,” Len says, fingers playing with the corner of his pillow. Barry briefly admires the long, elegant fingers before he forces himself to look away. “This one has a bed and food and something like a TV if we can figure out how to turn it on. Looks like we’ll be partying all week, too. They’re celebrating us. It’s my kind of planet.” 

Barry laughs shortly, quietly. “I guess so.” 

The silence stretches out again. He hates falling asleep with the light on. He doesn’t look to Len to see if he’s still watching Barry. 

“...Len?”

“I fucking swear,” Len snaps, but Barry ignores him. 

“I can’t believe that they think we’re soulmates.” 

According to Gideon, the Strehm and Huddaks don’t have a word for “dibs” in their vocabulary. The closest translation is actually something like “claim” or “soulmate”. 

It also turned out that both nationalities believe in soulmates, and Barry’s verbal and body language had somewhat echoed an ancient ritual of recognizing and accepting one’s soulmate. They’d already known that the Strehm and Huddaks tended to be polyamorous. The concept of a nuclear family was not the same as it was on Earth, with child rearing in both cultures more of a community effort than the responsibility of two parents. However, their view of love and relationships didn’t mean that they did not have soulmate mythology, not unlike the lore of Earth. They believed that souls were once whole, but were split into two or more parts during the birthing of the planets. And now Destiny sometimes brings the missing pieces together so they may become whole during their mortal life.  

Barry thinks it’s beautiful, this recognition that no one on their own is whole, this hope that somewhere out there are the missing parts of them, waiting to reunite, waiting to accept each other for everything they are. 

“It’s a bunch of bullshit,” Len sighs. “But it’s bullshit that works in our favor.”

“Yeah,” Barry agrees, numbly. “I don’t think it’s complete bullshit, though.” 

“What kind of advanced culture believes in soulmates?” Len asks derisively. 

Barry groans. “Don’t be so cynical. You’ve seen Time itself. I literally run with lightning. Last week, I had dinner with Mab, the actual Fairy Queen of the Winter Court.”

“What?” 

“Constantine,” Barry shrugs because that’s explanation enough, in his opinion. The face Len makes at the name is _hilarious_. Does he always make that face when Constantine is mentioned? Barry should experiment with this at a later date. “What I mean is—who’s to say that soulmates aren’t real? Or at least aren’t real here?” 

He looks to Len and is surprised by the intensity of his expression. “OK, then, I’m cynical,” Len concedes. “Or maybe I’ve got enough sense to know that something like soulmates is dangerous.” 

“What?” Barry asks, incredulous. 

“I’m not sure about the folklore here yet, but the ancient Greeks believed that soulmates were once people with two faces and four arms and four legs, right?” 

“Yeah,” Barry says slowly, not sure where he’s going with this. “I think so.” 

“I don’t know about you,” Len drawls sarcastically, clearly impatient. “But that sounds like a monster to me.” 

Barry wants to protest, but he stops himself. He thinks about Savitar, he thinks about himself, the Singularity and Flashpoint, all atrocities he committed out of selfish love for someone else. He thinks he probably agrees with Len. 

Not that he’s ever going to admit that out loud. 

“What were you doing today? That made Craix think you were spying?”

Len smirks. “Spying.” 

“What?” 

Len doesn’t dignify this with a response, and Barry doesn’t even know if he’s telling the truth this time. Len rolls to his back, careful to keep the covers around him, though the movement brings him closer to Barry. He looks adorably ridiculous with the blankets pulled up all the way under his chin. 

“We need a plan for tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow?” 

Len’s regard of him is largely underwhelmed. “Yes, Barry, a plan. I know how unfamiliar you are with that concept, but please do _try_ to pull some of the weight.” 

Barry sputters incoherently, a range of insults and threats all vying to spill from his lips at the same time. He takes a calming, re-centering breath only after he catches a hint of Len’s sly, triumphant smirk. “We talked about that already. ‘Play our roles’. I’ve done this before,” he says, thinking of Music Meister again. “It turned out fine.” Actually, he’d gotten shot and almost died, but that was beside the point. 

“Well, we can’t all fly by the seat of our pants—”

“Are you kidding me? You’re on the Legends—” 

“What are things soulmates are expected to do, hm? Kiss? Hold hands? Call each other ridiculous pet names?” 

“I don’t know, _bookie snap_ , we’ll just have to read up on it in the morning. The hard part is done, we’ve already stopped a war. How hard can it be?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos/comments/conversation/questions always welcome! ♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Tobyaudax and bikeross for some initial beta-ing! 
> 
> This story is actually mostly completed, just have a few scenes left and some editing to do! Unfortunately, I didn't get those parts done in time for the deadline, so I had to split it and post in chapters instead. The rest is coming!


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